


The Pathologist Problem

by Carice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23429656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carice/pseuds/Carice
Summary: Humbly gifted to the brilliant lilsherlockian1975 as a little thank you for all the stories I've loved reading, and as a virtual hug for what you're going through just now.Victorian, because I just can't stop my fascination with that era and our heroes within that era. Set right after the revelation scene in Abominable Bride.Illness/nursing/getting better and how that affects the relationship between Holmes and Hooper. I hope this subject isn't insensitive at this time, please don't read if you find the idea upsetting, but I can promise a happy ending. I for one have pretty bad health anxiety, not great in a global pandemic, and I somehow find fics like this comforting. I hope some of you do too.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 37
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilsherlockian1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/gifts).



It had been an emotional evening; revealing herself to Sherlock Holmes as a woman had not been an easy thing to do. Molly was proud of herself for keeping calm, for not going to pieces in front of him; however standing there having him really see her for the first time had been really quite a difficult thing. 

That, thought Molly later, tucked up in her bed in her lodging, must be why I feel so shaky still. It is the embarrassment of it all which makes me go hot and cold. 

By the early hours of the morning however Molly knew it was more than meeting Sherlock Holmes as herself which was affecting her; her sweaty brow, the chills and dizziness, and her hot, raw throat surely heralded a malady of more than the mind. 

It was three days later that Molly started to become fearful. The lodging house in which she lived, she had chosen for the very reason that no-one would pay any attention to her; the landlady was absentee, living in another of her houses, and the few other rooms which were let were taken by men of equally retiring disposition as 'Michael' Hooper. Certainly, none had heard her calls for help. 

The char woman cleaned only once a week, another reason the rent was so low. It was now that good woman's visit which Molly held out for. She had not been able to eat, and had barely drunk anything, since she had returned home that fateful evening. Her throat was swollen, raw, and her temperature, she gauged, dangerously high. She had considered many times simply going outside and asking for help, but each time she tried, her head span, and her vision tunnelled. 

That third day, it seeming to be taking forever for the char lady to arrive, Molly had tried once more to call out for help, hoping one of her few fellow lodgers might hear her. But no one had heard. The whole place was as quiet as the grave to which Molly now feared she would be headed. 

She cried hot tears. How had her life come to this? She realised that she had been too careful. She had given St. Barts a false address, the better to protect her secret identity, so she could expect no visit from anyone there who might be missing her; she had been assiduous in her attendance at the meetings and activities of the Abominable Brides, but once again, her concern for her secret identity had made her too circumspect; she had kept herself at a distance from the other women, so could expect no concerned friend to visit. 

Molly looked at the faded whitewashed walls surrounding her. They began to move around her, their straight lines bending strangely. Noises sounded, a long way off in the distance, then coming closer. If she hadn't been so very sleepy, she might have tried calling out again, hoping it was the char lady at last. 

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It had been Mary Watson who had prompted John Watson to enjoin his friend Sherlock Holmes to seek the whereabouts of Hooper. The day after the events of the Abominable Brides, Inspector Lestrade had requested Holmes consult on a case of murder, and all three gentlemen had been a little taken aback by the absence of Hooper from the Morgue, when he was usually so constant in his attendance there. 

Holmes was irritated to have to deal with Mr Anderson instead of Hooper, but simply shrugged, showing no discernable interest, when Watson wondered aloud, as they walked back to Baker Street, as to Hooper's absence. Clearly, it was related to the revelations of the night before, but beyond that, both gentlemen paid it little mind. 

The following day they had attended the Morgue again, and once more found Hooper absent, with Anderson complaining that the note of enquiry they had sent to her lodging had been returned as 'unknown at this address'. 

John Watson and Holmes shared a wondering look. 

John shared the strange absence of Hooper with his wife as they sat over dinner at home that evening. 

When Mary found that Hooper had sent no word to her employers, and that her whereabouts in general were unknown, she felt some concern. She wouldn't have liked to put it into words as it was all rather difficult to summarise, but she had a strange feeling in relation to Hooper – that night, she had seemed strong, but fragile somehow. To disappear like that – perhaps the poor woman was dreadfully upset. Perhaps she thought Holmes would refuse to work with her at the Morgue? She convinced her husband to engage Holmes in finding the lady, if only to check that she wasn't worrying about nothing. If Mary hadn't been promised for a visit to an old school friend due to give birth any day, no doubt she would have been fully involved in any search herself, but as it was, she set off for the train and left the matter safe in her husband's hands. 

So it was that Holmes, having followed a path of enquiry that remained a mystery to his friend, led the way to the lodging room of Molly Hooper. Holmes had used some nefarious skill with a pick lock to get them in the front door of the house, and having spent a tedious time speaking with the two other lodgers they found in residence, and/or barging doors open when there was no reply, they politely knocked repeatedly at what they knew must be Hooper's door. 

Having no answer, they locked eyes, nodded, then as one man determinedly shoulder-barged the door, arriving in the room almost one on top of the other and with the door making a loud bang on the wall behind. Hooper lay in her bed, as white as a ghost, her dark hair fanned across the pillow around her, her cheeks sunk and the skin around her eyes grey and shadowed. 

Watson saw the situation at a glance, and sat himself on the bed beside her at once, taking her tiny wrist in his fingers and taking his pocket watch out to take her pulse. 

Holmes stood, regarding the lady and the picture of misery that she presented. 

Some half a minute later, Watson laid down her hand on the bed, and turned his head to Holmes. “She's very weak. Is there water on the night-stand?” 

Holmes whirled round, the first time he had moved since entering the room. He poured water from a small jug on the night-stand and passed it to John Watson. John spoke to Hooper, encouraging her to sit up a little, to take a sip. Her eyes opened, brown and intense, and she obediently attempted a sip, but on trying to swallow a pained frown clouded her forehead, and then her eyes closed again, her head lolling to the side.

“Holmes, put your arm behind her neck – lift her a little, she needs water”. 

Sherlock stepped forward and did as he was bid. As his arm passed beneath her, he felt a jolt of surprise. He found her to be as light as a bird, no weight at all, as he gently pushed her up a little. John pressed the glass onto her cracked lips and Sherlock couldn't take his eyes away, willing her to take in even a sip. Hooper's eyes remained closed, but he noted the smallest movement of her lips; good woman, she was trying again. As she swallowed, she grimaced in pain and a sob escaped her. Watson made her take as much as she could, then nodded at Holmes to lay her down again, which he did with great care. 

Watson gently opened her mouth, and the merest look in her throat was enough. 

He shook his head, and stood, walking with Sherlock to the window. “She has tonsillitis. I'd say she's been untended these three days at least, and it's progressed quite badly. She needs proper nursing care. She can't stay here alone. I would say she needs hospital care, but I don't think she would want to be at Barts in her – well in her female persona. If we transport her to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson -”

“Baker Street?” Holmes appeared a little mystified. For once, Watson was the one urging him to keep up. 

“Mrs Hudson can provide good basic nursing care, I'm sure. I can check daily on the patient. Baker Street is the best place for her, Holmes, surely you can see that?”

“But surely your home would be -” 

John cut him off. “Mary has gone to help a friend with her confinement and will be gone some days at least. I can't trust Jane to help or nurse anyone, she's a terrible enough housemaid. Mrs Hudson is who Miss Hooper needs, now, Holmes”. 

Holmes looked as if he were going to demur, but the fierce look that Watson threw his way was enough to stop him making further objection. “oh well, if you insist. She can no doubt be placed in Mrs Hudson's room”. 

John flashed his friend an exasperated look, and busied himself finding and packing a bag with some basics that he found in the sparse chest of drawers. He then unhooked a dressing gown from the back of the door, and handed it to Holmes, telling him to place it over the patient once he had her up. 

John then scooped Molly up into his arms, Sherlock covered her, picked up her bag, and the men then left the small lodging house and were into the carriage and on their way to Baker Street with all possible speed. 

SHSHSHSHSHSSHSHSHSHSHSH

Mrs Hudson was a mixture of concerned for the young woman she was presented with, and clearly delighted to have someone to care for. She refuted at once the suggestion that Molly be nursed in her own modest bedchamber, and told John to make the lady comfortable in Sherlock's room. 

She quelled Sherlock's objections with one look, and as the three of them spoke together by the fire in the cosy living room after Molly was settled, she left Sherlock in no doubt as to why. 

“Your room has a chaise where I can sleep so that I can be with her all the time. Of course she couldn't sleep in my little bed, not needing as much looking after as she does. The very idea! You should be more considerate Mr Holmes, really, I think I shall have to have words with your mother”. 

Holmes huffed and rolled his eyes, but he had given up trying to fight the situation. 

“Well, I'm sure you will do a fine job of looking after the patient”. He waved a dismissive hand, and Mrs Hudson took the hint, bustling off to be with the young lady for whom she had formed an instant and protective attachment. 

Sherlock made his way over to the study area of the room, and sat, about to take up an experiment he'd been working on. 

John stood, hands on hips, shaking his head. “Holmes, sometimes I think you have no more humanity in you than the automaton toys in Gamage's window. Do you have no concern, no interest in the lady suffering behind that door?” He pointed at the door, and frowned, his moustache twitching as his mouth worked, biting back words he didn't want to say. 

Holmes sat straight, still looking through his microscope. “Her situation is of some interest, in fact. To have worked the deception as she did at Bart's and to become such a skilled pathologist while having to maintain a disguise and work as a man, with all that entails, is most remarkable. I would have to admit that since I have known of the situation, I have come to think of her as quite the most remarkable woman of my experience, overtaking Irene Adler in my estimation. Her present illness however, I have no opinion on. I am not in a position to assist her and therefore leave that to others who can”. 

Sherlock adjusted the viewing strength of the microscope. John Watson opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and opened it again, only to find he had no answer to the statement his friend had just made. 

A woman to eclipse Irene Adler? John wished he could go home and discuss this with his wife. As it was, he took his medical bag into Sherlock's room, and began to treat his patient.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy and healthy conclusion to this little story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for kudos and comments, which literally make my day! I hope you are all keeping well.

On the third day of Molly Hooper's residence at 221b Baker Street, John Watson could no longer hide his concern. Molly Hooper was seriously ill. She had eaten nothing since she arrived. She was the model patient, really trying to take the broth that Mrs Hudson would try to feed her, but it was clearly agony, and her temperature was so high that she would bring up anything she took in. 

Mrs Hudson was clearly exhausted, having been keeping religiously to a regime John had recommended of giving water and broth every couple of hours. 

John, leaving Molly's sick room at dinner time on that third day, sternly insisted that Mrs Hudson go down to her own room for the night and get some sleep. Even that determined lady could not protest too much, seeing the sense of his comments that she would be ill herself unless she took some rest. He watched the good lady go down the stairs and then nodded decisively to himself. 

Sherlock was still at his experiment table, busying himself with John knew not what. Pulling on his gloves, John said “Holmes, Mary has wired me this morning that she can now leave her friend, the baby having come safely and both well. I shall take the train out to Surrey and collect her now, I think. Mary will be happy to help nurse Miss Hooper. But for tonight Holmes”.... he paused, waiting for his friend to show his understanding of what would be required. 

Sherlock looked up from his work, a slight frown on his face. 

John sighed. “For tonight” he repeated “I shall have to ask you to assist. Two hourly fluids, and you shall need to soak a cloth to cool her forehead around every hour. It'll be a long night I'm afraid. And Holmes, I think – I think if there is no improvement tonight, she will need removing to Barts after all”. 

Sherlock paused and really looked at his friend. For the last three days, he had paid little attention to the idea of the resident patient in his bedroom, assuming that Mrs Hudson would take care of matters and that at some point he would look up from an experiment or come in from a case, to be told Miss Hooper had recovered and departed. 

To see John Watson so clearly troubled was rather disconcerting, as was the sudden contraction he felt about the centre of his chest. 

“Very well, Watson”. He stood and shrugged off his dressing gown and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. 

John was hailing a cab within moments, aiming to catch the 10pm from Waterloo to fetch Mary. He had to admit to some surprise at how easily Holmes had agreed to help Miss Hooper, but clearly Holmes had respect for the lady, so he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He simply hoped that good care and constant attention was going to be enough to allow the poor girl to recover. 

Sherlock Holmes wasn't used to thinking about his heart, but he knew within an hour of John's departure that it was sinking. Molly's temperature soared. She wore only a thin, white cotton nightdress, just a shift without sleeves, but she was covered in sweat and she tossed and turned, talking nonsensically all the while. He wasn't a medical man, but he recognised delirium. He undid some buttons on his shirt, pulled up a chair beside the patient, and set himself to cooling Miss Hooper's brow most assiduously. 

When Mrs Hudson crept up the stairs in the small hours, having woken and felt compelled to check on Molly, she felt such trepidation as to what she might find that she was quiet as a mouse and didn't enter but peeked through the small gap left by the not quite fully shut bedroom door. To her absolute amazement, there was Sherlock Holmes, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, holding a wet cloth to Molly's forehead with one hand, and reaching to capture both her restless hands with his other, leaning forward and making shushing noises. “Rest, Hooper. I have you. You must allow yourself to rest now” He said, very low, very quiet. 

Tears sprang to Mrs Hudson's eyes, and she bit her lip. That boy would be the death of her. She took herself downstairs and allowed herself to take some more rest.

Sherlock was well used to making himself go without sleep when necessary, so he had no difficulty staying awake to continue his attentions to Miss Hooper's care. By 4am, her restlessness and delirium suddenly gave way to utter quiet and stillness, and for a few moments his heart stopped beating in his chest. Then she sighed, and turned to lay on her side, one hand beneath her on the pillow like a child, and he realised her fever had peaked. He sat back on the chair, his face to the ceiling above, letting out a huge sigh, his hands limp on his lap, the cloth he'd been cooling her with falling from his grip. 

By 6am, she began swallowing convulsively. Sherlock raised her with his arm, as he had done some days ago in her bedchamber, and encouraged her to take some sips of water. For the first time she drank fully. A strange satisfaction overtook him. He looked down at her, and then she looked straight at him. 

“Holmes” Her voice was quiet and rough.

He put the glass down on the night-stand. 

“Hooper”. He said, laying her back down to the pillow.

She said no more, and it was a moment before Sherlock realised that he had laid her down gently on her pillow but neglected to remove his arm, and that she had fallen back into a peaceful sleep in the crook of it. He put the strange swelling feeling he experienced as a result, down to the effect of being hunched over – that was it, that was why he couldn't quite catch his breath. 

With extreme care, he moved his arm away from under Molly and he stood, stretching out his aching limbs. He was struck, as he looked down at her, with another unaccustomed feeling – he noticed how attractive she was. Most definitely too delicate of figure for current fashionable 'buxom' tastes, but she had a quality of strength allied with elfin beauty, which struck him as quite unique in his experience. On her face he saw the ghost of the stern faced Hooper of the morgue, and she was very familiar to him but at the same time, utterly different. 

For a moment, he felt a little voyeuristic. In her normal state of health, she would most certainly not have wanted to have him standing over her like his, while she was laying in his bed, no less. 

Well, that thought set off another set of long repressed feelings – and he was saved from allowing his mind to dwell on that side of things, by the realisation that Mrs Hudson was approaching. 

One look at Miss Hooper was enough to reassure her, and she turned a glowing smile on Sherlock. 

“Oh Mr Holmes, you've looked after her wonderfully. She's clearly over the worst. But she'll need building up. I'll fetch some broth and some tea”. 

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

Sherlock had vacated the sick room as soon as Mrs Hudson arrived back with the fortifying nutrition she felt Molly must have, and he soon lost himself back in the minutiae of the chemical testing he had set up at his desk. 

John and Mary Watson arrived, and there was some to-ing and fro-ing and talking and even whispering at one point, but Sherlock paid it no attention. 

The whispering had in fact been Mrs Hudson, outside the sick room door, sharing with John and Mary the touching scene she had witnessed during the night. 

“So devoted and gentle he was, Mrs Watson, I've never seen him like that, not once”. Mary's eyes widened and she smiled, full of interest in this softer side of Sherlock Holmes, and putting that together in her mind with John's revelation of Sherlock admitting he thought more of Molly Hooper than of Irene Adler...well – it was all most intriguing. 

Two days more of the kind attentions of Mrs Hudson and Mary saw Molly much recovered. She could eat and drink, although her throat was still sore and she was very weak, finding herself dizzy if she tried to walk more than a few steps. She much enjoyed getting to know her two new friends, and thanked them many times a day. 

During the night of the third day of her recuperation, Molly awoke in the small hours when all was dark and quiet in Baker Street. Sleep had left her and couldn't be recaptured no matter how long she lay in the quiet blackness of Sherlock Holmes's room. So many hours of rest during her illness appeared to have played havoc with her natural pattern. She sighed, threw off the sheet and blankets, and stood. She felt as weak as a kitten, but also felt a sudden claustrophobia with these four walls. She made her way silently into the parlour of 221b Baker Street. 

There was a dull glow from the embers remaining in the fireplace, casting just the smallest light in the room. Molly made her way to look out of the window, peeking through heavy closed curtains, drinking in the novelty of a different view, a reminder of the world outside. She felt an immediate chill from the window, and something indefinable in the air spoke of the promise of snow. 

Molly felt a powerful wave of sadness. How she loved it here. For most of the days of her stay she had been quite insensible of her surroundings, but in more recent hours she had been most sharply aware of being in Sherlock Holmes's room. It had been no easy thing to be in love with Holmes while dressed as Dr Matthew Hooper. Now it was no easy thing to be surrounded by his belongings, his books, the very scent of him. 

Molly knew no one would have had the least suspicion of her feelings, while she was Matthew Hooper. Now, standing here in her nightdress, it felt terrifyingly intimate. She found herself longing to see Holmes, and dreading it too. She had no idea how to cover her feelings , how to interact with him, when she was Molly Hooper. And the memory of a moment, being in his arms, gentle words being spoken in that deep, warm rumble of a voice – at first, she had thought she must have dreamt it, but Mrs Hudson had spoken proudly of his gentle nursing of her that one night. 

It didn't help that, since meeting him without her male persona that night of the Abominable Brides, she felt her future to be more uncertain than it had been for some years. How could she don her male clothes now, and treat Holmes just the same?

All felt too strange, too unsettling, out there in the world – but these warm, dark, cosy rooms, where Sherlock slept upstairs; she never wanted to leave. 

She sighed, and moved off towards the intriguing table of experiments with which Holmes had clearly been busy. Finding matches out on the desk, she lit a sole candle, and couldn't resist taking a closer look. She sat at his chair, whispering quietly to herself as she named the chemicals she saw. She drew the candle closer to the microscope, and had a close look. 

“hairs – and threads from a jacket? Tweed? Irregular masses – some kind of glue like mixture?”

“Indeed – glue” the voice of Sherlock Holmes startled her; she cried out, and as her hands jerked in shock she knocked a glass vial, luckily empty, to the floor. 

“Oh, Holmes – you startled me – I'm so sorry! I'll clear this up”. 

Holmes held out both his hands to her. The glass was on the floor between them. He opened out his hands insistently and said “Take my hands and jump over. You have nothing on your feet”. 

Molly did so. She hopped over the shards, ending very close to him, almost touching his chest. She looked up at him. Oh, but he was a devastating man. His hair, usually so neatly slicked back, was without it's pomade and was, oh lord, it was curly, tendrils hanging over his brow. He wore a shirt, open quite far, and trousers, and over them a rich blue dressing gown, hanging open. 

He looked down at her, unblinking. 

“Are you well, Hooper?” 

Strangely, in the dark quiet night of Baker Street, it felt thrillingly intimate that he called her 'Hooper' instead of, as she would have expected, Miss or even Dr Hooper. 

She felt a little faint, truth be told, however that was nothing to do with being unwell and more to do with being with him in this setting, in her night attire. “I am much better, thank you. I couldn't sleep. I thought I would come out for a change of scene”. 

Unfortunately the tunneling blackness at the edge of her vision gave the lie to this assurance, and clearly Sherlock could see that she was a little unsteady. He urged her over to the settee at the side of the room and sat beside her, one arm resting along the back of the sofa behind her, his body angled toward her, regarding her closely. 

“Are you well?” He said, again, low and quiet. 

Molly simply nodded, unable to move her eyes from his. She was no expert on men, that was for sure, but some strong instinct told her that something undeniable was happening, something mutual. 

Sherlock moved toward her a little, and his hand raised to brush a stray tendril of hair away from her cheek. At the touch of him, her breath hitched, her eyes closed. His hand stilled. She looked at him again, and she could not have explained or described his look, but something in it allowed her instincts to take over – she could see he felt something for her, something more than she would ever have hoped for. And many unformed, unspoken thoughts which had been flying around her fevered mind recently, seemed to crystallise all at once into movement; she knelt up, in her nightdress like a wanton, put her hands on his broad shoulders, and leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss. She could have died, this past week. She was not going to let life pass her by. If he rejected her, that would be better than never having done this. 

Far from rejecting her, his arms went round her immediately, drawing her to him so that she was pressed up against his body, and he was kissing her back. Not only was he kissing her back but he was taking control, deepening the kiss, and somehow he had moved her back to the arm of the settee, and he was leaning over her – she responded, desire and arousal leaping in her, and she snaked her arms around his neck, one hand tangling in his hair, pulling him to her; they were almost laying now, he atop her; and his tongue licked along her mouth, opening her to him, as his left hand moved from where it had been gripping her hair, along and across over her breast...and oh dear lord, but Molly could feel his arousal where he pressed against her, and she couldn't breathe, she was overwhelmed. 

Sherlock must have felt her move away slightly – he stopped at once, moving to sit back, looking wrecked, breathless. “I'm – I'm sorry. I had not intended -”

Molly sat also, smiling, shaking her head. “You have nothing to apologise for! I just, well – I'm not used to....” she moved her hand between them to try to indicate what she meant. 

Sherlock quirked a smile. “I too do not make a habit of kissing pathologists who have been convalescing in my bedroom”....

Molly smiled, biting her lip. “I'm sorry if my actions just now gave a more worldly impression than I am able to....to”...she couldn't quite find the words. Sherlock leaned in and kissed her again, briefly, then he said

“It is strange knowing you for all these years and yet, not at all. You appear to have bewitched me, Hooper. Got behind all the defences I thought were impenetrable”. 

Molly's heart swelled. “Those days I was ill and alone last week. My only regret was not having told you how I felt – feel – about you”. 

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her again – the heat between them was aflame instantly. They did not seem to be able to be tender or slow. It was all passion. Again Molly broke away, breathless. Sherlock rested his forehead on hers, his breathing ragged. “Apologies, Hooper. I will behave in a more gentleman-like manner, don't fear. Return to bed, before my resolve weakens. But tomorrow, we will talk about a way forward”. 

Molly nodded, and stood. A huge part of her wanted nothing more than to remain, kissing Sherlock Holmes on this sofa, but she was more than a little weak and shaky and realised she needed to get a little better from her illness yet. And to hear him talk about ' a way forward', a future for them, together in some way. It was enough and would sustain her through the rest of the night. 

He quietly followed her to the doorway of his bedroom, and Molly could not quell the thrill of the thought that one day very soon perhaps they would enter together and – and she could only imagine what would pass. As it was, he kissed her again at the door, her leaning up against the door-frame, and this time when his tongue licked against her mouth she allowed his tongue to penetrate where it would, gently allowing hers to lick and explore also. She could hardly breathe for the piercing arousal she felt at the thrill of the effect it had on Sherlock – his breathing so ragged and loud, his hands clutching at her convulsively, his hips pressing into hers so hard she could feel the strength of his arousal against her very clearly. 

He broke the kiss this time, and let her go suddenly. Leaning, breathing as if he had run a mile, one arm on the door-frame above her head, he said with a tight smile “Christ, woman. Go. I am no saint and do not pretend to any great level of restraint...” And Molly went, but she did not sleep, only waiting out the hours before she could see him again, and discuss with him this 'way forward'. 

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

To read John Watson's stories from then on, the reader would have no occasion to realise there had been any change in the circumstances of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective. To the world at large, and to the readers of the Strand Magazine, he was the same reasoning machine he ever had been, as painted by John Watson. Cases were brought and mysteries were solved. The cosy rooms of 221b Baker Street remained to all who might read about them, the typical bachelor accommodation of the long term single man. 

Sherlock Holmes had taken one housemate in the form of John Watson, who had moved away only on his marriage. No one could remark then, on his taking another in the form of one Matthew Hooper, someone with whom Holmes had a professional relationship, just as he had with his previous room-mate. An altogether sensible and mutually beneficial arrangement. 

The reader and the public at large would of course have no reason to search for (government aided, well hidden) marriage certificates or entries in the name of Sherlock Holmes or Molly Hooper. 

Only good friends like the Watsons would have any reason to call unannounced on a quiet Sunday afternoon, to find a petite and attractive lady in place of Matthew Hooper, at work together with her husband at a table of bubbling experiments, or to observe the great detective, his head laid on her lap, her hand on his chest as she held a book with the other, reading aloud to him. 

John would of course have no need or desire to mention that, when work allowed, there were restful, short holidays at a little cottage on the South Downs, where Matthew Hooper was unknown and only a quiet married couple who kept themselves completely to themselves, were sometimes witnessed on long walks. 

John Watson was certainly going to make no mention of it in all the stories yet to write. Yet he took great personal and professional satisfaction in knowing that he had taken some small part in ensuring this incomparable, quirky woman was discovered in her illness and that his care, along with the nursing of the lady's now two closest friends, Mrs Watson and Mrs Hudson, had played it's part in giving her, and his friend, this new life.


End file.
